


The Devil You Know

by InHisImage



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Love, Claustrophobia, Conversations, Cruelty, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, Friendship, Humiliation, Hurt Sam Winchester, Isolation, Lucifer Feels, Lucifer's Cage (Supernatural), M/M, Manipulation, Minor Lilith/Lucifer (Supernatural), Psychological Horror, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, Trauma, Violence, god is not good, the cage is not what it seems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:49:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23919250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InHisImage/pseuds/InHisImage
Summary: He exercises a lot. A whole fucking lot. Push-ups, pull-ups, jumping squats. He jogs in the same spot until he can feel his heart tear out of his chest. He works himself out to the level of exhaustion so he can drop down and faint. It never happens, so he punches the walls bloody and breaks the only table in the room. He tries to do the same to the locked door. It doesn't give, never does.Where is Lucifer?Or,The cage is a brutal place to be. That is, if it's a place at all. Faced with a constant threat of total ego annihilation, Sam has to either take it, or cozy up with the Devil. In Hell, there's a price to pay for self-preservation.Pleasant conversations, age-old questions, terrible terrible consequences. This is a bleak and claustrophobic story on the tenderness and the savagery of making friends with the Prince of Darkness.
Relationships: Lucifer/Sam Winchester
Comments: 79
Kudos: 174





	1. A Room with Frontal View

"You've made your bed, Sam. Now you go lie in it."

It's dark. Darker than any darkness he's ever experienced before. And it's heavy. Heavier than laws of physics should allow. And it's cold, the kind of cold that eats on your skin, the kind that burns. Gravity feels like a neodymium magnet, and his feet are stuck to the ground and he can't move, can't see, can't lift a finger. He feels encased in cement and he's so fucking aware, more than he'd ever want to be aware of anything, that he's not breathing.

_You've done it, Sam. You've done it. You jumped. You beat him._

He should feel triumphant but he doesn't really. There's nothing but the downing realization that he's dead and yet still right here. He's conscious of his body, can still feel it twitch and strain and tremble, fighting against something that surrounds him head to toe, that seeps through the small gaps between his fingers and hardens. He can feel it on his chest, entangled with his hair, in the folds of his knees, against his nostrils. The weight. It's so heavy and it doesn't yield.

Nothingness. A nothingness that doesn't flaw. It stays. It stills. It traps him within. And Sam thinks perhaps this is how it feels to be 3-dimentional, to be stuck in a painting where time doesn't exist. The thought is so terrifying he can feel the panic attack erupt in his system. Curious, though, that he can't part his lips to suck in oxygen and it's almost comical to worry about the state of his erratic heart, but his body is the only thing that is ever really there and it does what bodies do. It freaks the fuck out.

_This can't be it. This can't be it. No._

Would probably be wise to remember, that whatever version of Hell he just willingly threw himself in is his choice and his eternity. And eternity is not something you could ever grasp, is it? You expected hellfire and racks and... Lucifer, you expected lucifer and a cage. Dean has made Hell sound like a medieval torture dungeon and you were okay with that. You were, you accepted it.

_Not this. Not this. God, not this._

The claustrophobia burns from the inside out. He can feel something within him trying, and failing, to claw him open and escape. Something feral and mindless, hysterical, punching and kicking onto the inner walls of his skin. It's vicious and it hurts like a son of a bitch.

There's no conceivable way to estimate how long it's been. Might have just materialized here, might have been here since the beginning of time. He'd shred his whole body into tiny little unrecognizable pieces if he could just, for a second, feel them drift in the wind. He'd break his knuckles, his teeth, his spinal cord, if he could just pierce a hole into the impenetrable black and, for a second, just a second, be able to scream himself hoarse.

_God, not this. Help me. Help me._

____________________________

Sam is the immovable object pushing against an unstoppable force; his body is locked in a constant state of tension, adrenaline, strain, pushing and pushing and pushing, violent and desperate and on the brink of losing his mind. And then there's one more push and, oh, look at that, he goes. He punctures into what is now suddenly air and drives himself forward face first into something warm and soft, fabric. Somehow he's sprawled on the edge of a bed and he loses his balance and falls to the floor, and there's light, and colors, and he can fucking breathe.

_What? What..._

He flinches the second he touches solid ground and he scrambles up on hands and knees and he breathes and shivers and breathes and shivers. There's a tinge of insanity to how frantically he pulls himself up to his feet, but he's deriving some odd sort of intense pleasure from the simple fluency of how his limbs move and his joints bend. His body vibrates with it and he's laughing and he's crying and anxiety runs hot and brutal in his veins.

_Thank you thank you thank you!_

It takes him an agonizingly long while to stop hyperventilating and take his lungs' fill, to school his breathing into a rhythm his heart can support, takes him even longer to summon the energy to focus on where he is and how (why?) he got here. But, eventually, he does, and cloudy delirious eyes dart up to explore his new environment.

It looks like a regular cheap motel room. Something he and Dean would book no problem because they just need to change and grab a bite and most likely won't spend the night. One bed, one small table, two chairs, one worn-out couch, nothing much else beside two doors on opposite sides and old fading wallpaper that may have once resembled trees. The economical nature of the room is comforting and familiar, and for a brief second, he relaxes just a little bit.

_We did it, Dean, huh? We did it._

His vision is still a little off. He's not exactly sure but the light, the shadows, the specks in the air just don't align right. He blinks several times back to back trying to shake the feeling off. It doesn't waver. He decides to ignore it for now because just the ability to move in free space feels heavenly, and his heart is still thumbing in his chest a little too fast for him to calm down and analyze.

_You're still in Hell, Sam. This is still Hell._

Two doors. He stops pacing around and stares on the one closest in proximity. He's tentative, downright scared, but he inches towards it anyway. Hand on the cold knob and it doesn't give. Locked. Okay, will try again later. He steps away and goes for the second. He expects the same scenario and, to be fair, he's not really in a stable enough mental state to practice caution, and so he reaches for the handle in a semi-automatic motion, just plain old muscles doing what they do best. It burns hot and it gives immediately. And the door is open. And for a second there he's distracted with the sudden prickly pain pulsating from the palm of his hand, but then a certain smell overwhelms him and...

_There you go._

Sulfur and burning flesh. He pulls back nervously, both hands reaching behind him for the door blindly, making sure it's still right there and not going anywhere. And this is madness, is it not? Because apparently this is some sort of balcony that overlooks Hell? Before him (and below him?) extends well into the horizon a barren land of heat and fire, drowning in a hot reddish hue. Heavy sounds of clinking metal and, if he squints really really hard, he can see, amidst the smoke and heat waves, figures moving far away at the near end of his line of sight.

There's a moment of panic where he tries to push through and investigate a little further, but the heat is crawling up his skin and the smell is making him sick to his stomach and he just doesn't want to, can't, deal with this shit right now. In a hasty frantic motion, he turns away and goes back through the door. Pulling it shut behind him with the hem of his shirt. He's flustered and disgusted and fuck can he almost taste the horror on the very tip of his tongue.

"Hey, Sam Winchester. We settling in alright?"

_There you fucking go._

____________________________

"Lucifer."

He hisses the name. It's a simple acknowledgment and yet it catches in his throat, and his mouth is so dry he's going to cough his lungs out.

"Hiya, Sammy. Easy."

Sam takes a couple of steps back, careful. There's a bewildered expression on his face because Lucifer looks like Nick, which doesn't make any sense unless...

_Not really him. A projection. An illusion._

"Yeah, this?" Lucifer makes a general gesture towards his own chest, "Thought you'd appreciate the familiarity."

"Thanks."

It's a little too dry to be genuine, but Lucifer wouldn't sweat the small details. And Sam's eyes wander across the room inspectively, eyebrows furrowing.

_Light, shadows, specks in the air, just don't align right._

"This room... It's an illusion too?"

Lucifer clicks his tongue, eyes glow with something dark and amused, but when he speaks, his words are slow and patronizing, like he's just been asked the most ridiculous question. Like he expected better.

"Yeah, I didn't build you a motel brick by brick, Sherlock, what do you think?"

Sam swallows the implied insult neutrally. He doesn't care. Because if the room is an illusion, then...

"And the, uh, dark?"

"Ah, how did you like that by the way?"

There's a small tremble to the way Sam presses his lips at the question. It doesn't go unnoticed, and he curses under his breath at how galringly he wears the distress up his sleeve. But then again, Lucifer knows, and perhaps the most dignified answer is to just give him the truth.

"Hated it. You know. Your turn."

"Short answer? No. The 'dark' is not an illusion, not my making either."

_What's the long answer?_

"Come." Lucifer tells him, casually strolling towards the balcony door, "I want to show you something. I won't bite."

Oddly enough, Sam believes him. Lucifer is a lot calmer than he expected him to be and it _is_ alarming, but for the present moment, he's not on his toes dreading foul play.

He follows silently, watching him open the door, the same knob that burnt his hand earlier, with zero trouble. And he walks in. Sam steps in in his track cautiously. Hell's distinctive scent strikes him in the face.

"My life has always been a clusterfuck of weird, Lucifer, but a room with panoramic view of Hell? I think that tops the list."

This, Lucifer genuinely smiles at. He looks entertained and a little proud, something akin to the way a friend would grin when you immediately get their inside joke.

"My pleasure. Biblical hell in all its glory. This is what you expected to see, right?"

"Hm. Much hotter than I imagined."

"Comes with the territory."

Lucifer pulls a chair out of thin air and sets it so that it's leaning against the now closed exit. He sits down and pulls his legs up to rest crossed feet over the metal railing of the balcony. Sam had expected it to be scorching hot, and has kept his distance, but as they are now, he's sort of forced into a corner, and there's no chair for him; so he stands, uncomfortably, doesn't bother to disguise the emotion.

And Sam is confused. Because this, this feels like a dream. He and the fucking devil, hanging out in the balcony of a fantasy motel room, having what has been so far a very civilized almost friendly conversation, beholding literal Hell a few inches below their feet.

But more curious is the fact that, it doesn't really feel as hot as it did the first time. Lucifer being in such close proximity is probably the responsible factor. He radiates cold and Sam's body winces at the contrast.

"It's not real."

Lucifer says after a minute.

"I don't understand."

Lucifer quirks his head and raises his hand up. He snaps. And Hell disappears.

Sam stares forward mouth agape. One second it was Hell, and heat, and distant sounds of fire crackling, and the awful, awful smell of burnt meat and misery. And then it's nothing. Bright white surrounds the balcony.

Sam bursts out laughing. It's a stressed tight thing that leaves his chest heavy.

"Did you really just give me a Hell screensaver?"

Lucifer grins. It's playful and lighthearted and he looks like the child sole owner of a really fascinating magic trick.

It's the most absurd thing Sam has ever said or heard in his life. He can't stop laughing, and somewhere in there, the tightness in his chest tugs at him, and he thinks he's going crazy. Because none of this, none of it, makes any fucking sense and he's just exhausted.

_You're still in Hell, Sam. This is still Hell._

"What's happening here, Lucifer? I don't get it. I don't get what you're getting at."

"What's happening is that you and me, Sam, we're the only elements in this little universe pertaining in the slightest to what you'd define as 'real'. Everything else? Smoke and mirrors and, uh, screensavers. Except you know what. Go on. Touch it."

Sam feels his heart sink.

"Touch what?"

"The white. Touch it."

"I don't want to."

"Do it."

And Sam does.

______________________________

_Cold. So cold. The kind of cold that eats on your skin. The kind that burns._

Sam recoils, terror distorting his features, making his lips quiver, his eyes water. It drowns him, becomes him.

_No, no, no._

"I gave it a layer of light as a courtesy. For you. Please appreciate the effort and get a grip."

Lucifer's tone is cold and hard and Sam doesn't want to be this terrified, doesn't want to be pressing his back against the wall of the balcony trying to breathe and failing, doesn't want to be this small embarrassing thing that cowers in the corner in the throes of yet another panic attack in front of the one entity he hates most.

But he can feel it closing in. The dark. Can feel the weight imposing itself onto him, enveloping him, and his vision dims at the edges and Sam knows, on some level of coherence that he can't currently fully trust, that this is not happening right now. He's reliving the dark, but it's not happening right now.

"I want to go inside."

The words are uttered with such urgency and struggle it's almost pitiful.

"No."

"Lucifer. Move the fuck away. I want to go inside."

"No. And you'll get a grip right now before I throw you back there." He enunciates the next two words, "Right. Now."

Sam stills and stares, chest heaving. And the terror is there, but so is the fury. Because he feels like a misbehaving child and is being spoken to like one and it's fucking humiliating he can taste bile at the back of his throat.

He turns his back to the endless white before them and focuses instead on the wall of the balcony. Something concrete and colored and at a safe distance. He puts herculean effort into controlling, or at the very least masking, the anxiety spreading through his system like wildfire.

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

Lucifer pulls his legs down to the floor. He doesn't look affected by any of this. If anything there's a gleam of curious interest in his eyes, the only thing alive in his otherwise blank face. But his tone remains calm and neutral.

"Back in my day, Hell as you know it, as your brother has seen it, didn't exist. I suppose, in a way, I lay the foundation for it. Demons were my little school project after all. Had to give them a home and a job."

Sam watches him intently. He can tell where this is going and it makes his heart ache.

Lucifer resumes.

"Long story short, when I was cast out of Heaven and Dad had to lock me up somewhere to save his precious little humans, there was no Hell to send me to. Hell was more of a concept then: the absence of God you'd say?"

"The absence of God. As in the absence of light and everything. So the dark. He locked you up in the dark? That _is_ the cage?"

"You got it, kiddo."

Sam shakes his head, incredulous. He wants to throw up again. It's an intense ugly urge in the pit of his stomach and the nausea makes his head spin.

"So this is where we are now."

"Thanks to you, Sammy, this is where we are now."

Sam looks around him, frantic again. He curls and straightens his fingers almost obsessively.

_I can still move. I can still move. I'm not there._

"Then how are we here?"

"Because I'm inside your head, buddy. And lucky for you, I can make you see and feel whatever I want."

"So I am-- And you are-- We're still in the dark, right now?"

"Hm. Physically, yes. I can't do anything about your body, or my physical form, but, and call it experience, I can guard your consciousness right here."

"Why would you do that? Why would you guard me or do anything for me?"

Lucifer presses a fingerpad against his lower lip, looks contemplative for just a second. And then, "You, humans, are not built for this. I could survive it just fine because I could do, well, this. Build my own little world and stay there. You? You'd go mad."

"Why do you care? You could have let me go mad. You despise me. I brought you back here. You'd want me to suffer."

"All true. But you're also the only other real thinking being in my vicinity. Why give you up to madness when I can have you here, drive you mad myself, or not, whatever. We'll see."

Sam thinks his knees will fail him. He's clenching his fists and gritting his teeth and the claustrophobia, god, the claustrophobia is eating him alive.

"Where's Michael?"

_Where is my brother?_

Lucifer shrugs, "Don't know. In his own little corner of nothing snuggling up to your brother's head just like us, probably. Or at least I hope he's smart enough to be doing just that. Michael isn't the brightest of the bunch."

Sam breathes out, teeth anxiously digging into his lips, breaking skin, drawing blood. He's not sure he even exists, but the blood still tastes like metal and life.

_I'm not real. None of this is real. Not real. Not real. Not real._

"Do you still wanna go inside, buddy?"

Lucifer asks and this time, there's a layer of careful tenderness there. Sam doesn't buy any of it, but he appreciates it all the same.

"Yeah."

Lucifer nods in acknowledgment, stands up and pushs the chair out of the way. He opens the door and lets them both in, and Sam throws a final skittish glance at the white, and then walks into the room. He can breathe better inside; he does plenty of that.

"Get the door."

They lock eyes briefly. Sam's lips curl into a nervous smile. There's recognition there of what this really is. If Lucifer wants to see him hurt, sure, let him have it. Sam never shied away from pain. Physical pain, that is. He's got endurance down to a fine art in this regard.

It's also pride. Sam has spent the last hour (was that an hour?) crumbling under extreme duress, and damn did he fail to hide any of it. But physical pain is _fine_ , physical pain is easy. Something he can understand and push through. Something he'd gladly escape to if it would drown down the voices in his head screeching and wailing nonstop.

He grips the doorknob and pulls the door closed in one quick motion. It's stubborn and defiant in its own accord and Sam expects the burn to come. It doesn't. Feels like nothing at all. Lucifer smiles too.

"I'll let you be now."

Sam watches him silently walk towards the second door, the one that was locked, obviously already done with this conversation. What is there to go to?

"Lucifer."

"Hm?"

"What's behind the door?"

He shakes his head. Sam can't read the expression on his face, part of him doesn't want the answer for that.

"Oh Sammy," the devil blinks, and Sam has no idea in hell why he looks so fucking pleased with himself, "Just me."

He disappears behind the closed door.


	2. This Clock Isn't Ticking

Sam is smart enough to keep two pivotal points safe and cozy in mind. One: Lucifer didn't tell him about the dark, or how he's actively protecting him from the dark, for the mere sake of friendly bonding. It's not ancient knowledge being shared to educate. It's not even to trigger sympathy or a sense of camaraderie for the two poor souls locked in a cage of eternal claustrophobic nothing. Lucifer told him because...  
  
_It's something he can hold over your head_.  
  
And, two: no matter how pleasant and inviting Lucifer can be, no matter how tempting it is to buy into his every word because he speaks with the finality of a fallen king in a forsaken doomed land, he's not a reliable narrator of any story, let alone his own. He's not a friend, not an ally, most importantly not a savior. Every tragedy that has ever befallen Sam can be tracked back to him. And why go down a bleak memory lane, when he just killed Bobby, just disintegrated Cas, just beat Dean up within an inch of his life?  
  
_You beat Dean up within an inch of his life._  
  
Sam wipes his face with the hand that isn't burnt and aching, runs fingers through wet and sticky locks of hair. He's drenched in stress sweat and it's disgusting, and his room might come with a frontal view balcony, but it doesn't have a bathroom. So he settles on a chair and just lets himself exist.  
  
It's odd how he feels no grief for Bobby or Cas. He thinks he should but can't get himself to. Death, true final death, sounds like a luxury he finds himself envying them for. It's thinking of Dean that makes him choke up on tears. His heart breaks at the thought of his brother, ever so terrified of loneliness, ending up completely and utterly alone. Dean would trade places with him, even fully informed, in an instant. He won't even pause to consider it. He just would.  
  
_If you don't keep your promise and go have a life, Dean, I swear to fucking God..._  
  
He chuckles a little, and it's a bitter harsh thing. Because he knows, he knows it in his blood, that Dean won't give up on him. And with that same faith coursing through him, giving him a semplance of hope, runs wild the concrete awareness that it doesn't matter: there's nothing Dean can do to save him, not when it's just him against the cosmic nightmare Sam is currently buried in.  
  
_______________________  
  
Time extends endlessly when you have nothing to do. Sam can't sleep because it just doesn't happen. He doesn't feel hunger or thirst and nature never calls upon him. His hair is always the same length. His beard never grows. He'd bitten his nails down to the quick and they haven't recovered one-tenth of an inch since then.  
  
_Where is Lucifer?_  
  
He exercises a lot. A whole fucking lot. Push-ups, pull-ups, jumping squats. He jogs in the same spot until he can feel his heart tear out of his chest. He works himself out to the level of exhaustion so he can drop down and faint. It never happens, so he punches the walls bloody and breaks the only table in the room. He tries to do the same to the locked door. It doesn't give, never does.  
  
_Where is Lucifer?_  
  
He meditates. He prays. He daydreams. He weeps into the pillow. He sings the same song to himself seven times on a row. He lies down on the bed and visualizes a wrist watch; he counts to ten-thousand-eight-hundred with each move of the hand because at least then he knows it's been 3 hours.  
  
_Nine thousand three hundred eighty four. Nine thousand three hundred eighty five. Where is lucifer?_  
  
He replays entire days from 'before' in his head, spends half the time trying to recall what Dean had for dinner or whether the vampire they were hunting had a name he could remember. He makes a list of towns he and Dean have visited... No, scratch that. He makes an _alphabetical_ list of towns he and Dean have visited... No, scratch that. He makes 5 different alphabetical lists of towns he and Dean have visited, filtered by type of monster. It's all in his head and he keeps losing track at Massachusetts. Magic, hex bags, something, something, Ruby, can't for the life of him remember which town. But Dean could really see through her bullshit, couldn't he?  
  
_Dean, Dean, Dean, where is Lucifer?_

And then there's a moment where he can't bear it. Could have been a couple of weeks or 6 months in, no way to tell. But he's done and he knows it in his core. He's talked himself out of it a hundred times over. But now he's just done.  
  
He strides towards the locked door with renewed energy and abandon. He hammers the door with his fist; blood runs hot in his veins.  
  
"Lucifer! Where the fuck are you?"  
  
Nothing. He sticks his ear flat to the door. Still nothing.  
  
"Okay you son of a bitch, I fucking get it! I-- need to talk to you. I need to be the one seeking you out. Mazel fucking tov, here I am."  
  
Nothing. Not a sound. Nothing. It's always nothing and it crushes him.  
  
He looks insane, not that there's a mirror to reflect it, but he can feel it on his skin. Can feel his wired up nerves and the frustration building up to the brim and flowing out of him. This small empty claustrophobic existence, the shitty motel room and the broken furniture, and he can't sleep, can't sleep, can't breathe properly, can't escape it. He needs out, out, out. God does he need out.  
  
He kicks the door. Nothing. Paces back and forth around the room. He breaks another chair on the doorknob. He screams the same name again and again and again and it's...  
  
_You're fucking pathetic._  
  
And then finally he's drained, and he's not sure when he started crying, or when he ran to the only other door that, at the very least, opens.  
  
_______________________  
  
When Lucifer does come, Sam is in the balcony, sitting on the floor knees to his chest. He's staring into the white, chest rising and ebbing heavily. He's so deep in his own head he doesn't realize the presence inches away from him until...  
  
"You called."  
  
It's a flat statement. Self-explanatory. You called and here I am. But to Sam, who's currently a tight woven ball of nerves and rage, it's a fucking war announcement.  
  
He jumps him, pushes Nick's body back into the room and tackles him to the floor. He punches him in the face, sinks his knee in his guts. He wraps a hand around his windpipe and presses and presses and presses. And Lucifer's nose bleeds and his lower lip cracks open and he stares back at him as he's getting the shit beaten out of him. He just stares.  
  
Sam is reveling in it. In the outlet, in the violence, in the skin connection. He's out for murder and he doesn't stop. He punches the face below him into a bleeding pulp and he's panting and gritting his teeth and Lucifer doesn't react, doesn't defend himself, doesn't even groan when his nose breaks.  
  
And then Sam stops and pulls back, suddenly awoken from some sort of trance where hot fury cloaked his eyes and all he could see was red. He blinks several times, and it all looks so fucking embarrassing now. He's still huffing the exertion away.  
  
Lucifer sits up, wipes a decent amount of blood off his eyes and crosses his legs beneath him. He smiles, and it would have driven Sam crazy if he wasn't already there.  
  
"What's up, buddy? Talk to me."  
  
Sam is still crouching a stone's throw away, his cheeks flushed with the effort and a growing sense of shameful unease. He had wanted to talk to him. He did. And now he's here and Sam hasn't the slightest clue what he wanted to say.  
  
Lucifer looks at him expectantly for a second, and then at the room inspectively, "You broke all your chairs."  
  
"You can always make more."  
  
Lucifer shrugs. It's not important. There's still that only slightly entertained look on his half damaged face. And the worst part, the worst part is that Sam knows why it's there.  
  
"What do you want, Sam?"  
  
Sam, in all honesty, has no idea. He feels defeated and small and like he just got caught masturbating by his father and has to find a way to somehow explain himself.  
  
He bites his tongue and replies after what seemed like a long period of hesitant silence, "Not... this. Not an eternity of this."  
  
"Should we discuss the alternative?"  
  
Sam had already blurted out an anxious but decided "No" before Lucifer's lips even collided for the V sound.  
  
"See, I don't understand, Sammy. I practically saved you from eternal torture. I gave you a little nostalgic room, just the way you like'em. I kept my hands to myself, didn't hurt a hair of your sweet sulky head. How would you like your Hell experience enhanced, then? Tell me. I take constructive criticism to heart."  
  
_See? Fucking pathetic._  
  
Sam looks like a deer caught in the headlights. He wants to kill him, which he can't, but if he could, it would still be the stupidest thing to even consider. You don't sink your only lifeboat in the middle of a goddamn storm.  
  
There's a knot forming in the pit of his stomach as another realization blooms. He needs Lucifer. He needs him to escape the dark. He needs him to keep his sanity intact. Hell, he needs him to even maintain a concept of self.  
  
And Sam is aware he's being toyed with, and that he's making it so so easy. And there you go: a brand new entrapment in this hellhole to get all claustrophobic and hysterical about.  
  
"You said you don't want me to go mad. I don't want me to go mad." Sam manages, weakly.  
  
"Aha, so what would you like, buddy? A pet? A movie theater?"  
  
Sam wouldn't mind either, but he shakes his head like the suggestion is ridiculous, like he's not the most entitled demanding child that Lucifer is making him out to be.  
  
"Unless you just want to chat, because you're _bored._ "  
  
This hits a cord, if only because it's the exact truth.  
  
"Don't fucking pretend like this wasn't your agenda from day one, Lucifer."  
  
"Never mind me and my agendas. Because, this, this is gold. What do you think big bro would say, huh? Little Sammy isn't crucified or impaled or getting burnt to a crisp three times a day, no, much much worse, he's _so bored_. It's terrible and woe is him."  
  
Sam would love to fucking kill him right now, but a lot more so, he'd like to stick something sharp and barbed into his own skin. Because he deserves this, he does. If he weren't so foolish, if he weren't so easy, if he didn't cling to a false sense of significance that had him lounging in Hell like the devil wants something from him, like it's not the other way around.  
  
"Screw you. I don't want anything from you."  
  
"Well, alright then."  
  
Lucifer pulls up casually. Sam rises to his feet simultaneously, cautious and nervous and angry and overcome by a deep sense of absolute failure.  
  
But Lucifer does nothing to him and just heads for the door, and Sam beats himself up for the disappointment that tugs at his heart, for the urge he keeps having to provoke him into staying some more, even if that wouldn't bide well for him after all.  
  
Before Lucifer leaves, he turns to look at him. And it's spilling out of Sam's eyes, even as he presses his lips in defiant determination and waves him the fuck off.  
  
"Next time you call for me, Sammy, when you're over your pity party and your bruised ego, use your words. Tell me something I'd want to hear. Politeness goes a long way."  
  
He leaves, just like that, and for the first time since that first time in his room, when Lucifer was Jessica, Sam ponders a terrifying reality.

_Whatever value, whatever leverage, you held for the devil topside, it doesn't count for jack here. You have nothing to offer him. He wants nothing from you and he owes you nothing in return._

And it takes Sam another couple of weeks, or 6 months, no way to tell really, of slowly descending into madness and self-loathing, before he's knocking on the locked door again. Lips trembling as he uses his words.  
  
"Lucifer. I'd like to-- chat. Because I'm-- bored. Please."


	3. Small Eternities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This gets sad towards the end and I'm SORRY.

"...I mean, yeah, at the end of the day, the siren turned out to be the fake FBI agent, not the hot doctor, which, considering the lore, is just a little funny. Sometimes I still can't believe the shit Dean and I end up hunting."

"End- _ed_."

"Ended up hunting. Sorry."

Lucifer has been trying to instill a habit of exclusively using the past tense when Sam speaks of the before. Says it would help him adjust. Sam believes this to be absolute bullshit, and is usually not shy expressing just that, and would still use the present tense all the time when he's alone talking to himself. Lately though, he's been playing nice. The longer they can have a conversation without conflict, the longer Lucifer stays.

Lucifer doesn't comment on the correction, "You missed out on the truly fascinating ones. Monsters roamed the earth since before the dawn of you guys, long before. Some angels, the adventurous of the bunch, would hunt them for sport."

"Did you?"

"Once. Gabe and I may have ended an entire species on a whim. Dad was mad, expectedly. But they were already on his to-smite list. So we got away with it scot free."

Sam is usually genuinely enthralled with those conversations, with the stories he would have never found in books or ancient texts. Something so utterly above the domain of human knowledge. And to have it, to have this inside account into Heaven and its over-the-top royal family chronicles, it gives him butterflies.

It's also extremely intriguing to examine Lucifer's disposition when he recounts the dynamics he had with his brothers before the fall. Or how there is always that tad bit of unapologetic fondness whenever he speaks of Gabriel. It all sounds so _typical._ Normal, domestic, human.

"How did they come to be, the monsters?"

"Evolved in nature, same way everything else that he didn't snap into existence does. Dad would usually let the planet do its thing without meddling, unless a species or two caused too much trouble or threatened the hierarchy selection and his end-goal plan for humans to inherit the earth, then he'd come and hit the reset button on the entire system, or lock them away in their own custom-prisons."

"What's God's deal with locking monsters away when they become a problem? Wouldn't it make more sense, efficiency wise, to end the problem once and for all?"

And this, Sam knows, is a loaded question. He regrets it the second it escapes his mouth. But Lucifer doesn't seem all that bothered, even when it's fairly obvious this has just become personal.

"I like to think he has his sentimental moments."

Sam's lips curl into a small pensive smile. Something about how readily Lucifer answered this question is relatable and heart wrenching. It instantly reminds him of how Dean would always jump to defend their father, and his often hard-to-swallow approach at showing affection, against any accusations of disregard.

And Sam is beyond analyzing his feelings about those conversations with the devil. He'd had time, excruciatingly longer than he would ever deem necessary, to dissect every emotion and every reaction. Logically, he knows, there isn't a context where he should be sitting a few inches away from Lucifer, both on the floor leaned against the wall (the chairs are still broken), discussing, rather amicably, the beginning of time and their family woes. Regardless, also logically, he knows, whatever happens here has no stake in the world of the living up there; the war has already been "won," and his solemn victory and sacrifice are a page already turned and will eventually be forgotten, and forever is too fucking long, and in its own way it allows for a sort of leniency where it's not insurmountable really to find rapport in the enemy.

This is Lucifer's 5th visit since the first "please." He always comes when he's called for _politely_ , and he's always engaging and engaged, and he talks a lot and listens a lot, and he always leaves too soon. It's the highlight of Sam's existence, if only because it's the singular event there. When Lucifer isn't in the room, there is nothing else.

And Sam knows he's backed into a corner on this one. His all too human need for communication, for stimulation, for his very being to be validated by another, is stretched thin and starved. He fights it every moment of every unidentifiable day in Hell. And then he crumbles under the deprivation and he gives in. And he tells himself it's survival.

Lucifer stirs in his sitting position and Sam knows it's time for him to go. He never asks him to stay. And Lucifer never once implied or showed any indication of having a similar aching need for their brief interactions. If he did, Sam thinks he could swallow his pride and ask. But as it is now, he'd rather take what he's given and pretend it's enough.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, you need to go. I'll see you later."

"Actually, before I go... I have some bad news for you, buddy."

________________________

Sam is used to bad news; if his entire life flashed before his eyes, which it does often recently, it'll be a long expansive shot of his father first, and then Dean, and then friends, acquaintances, strangers giving him one piece of bad news after another, interrupted mostly by the aftermath of taking care of said bad news. So he shouldn't really be that alarmed. He shouldn't be feeling the anxiety pricking through his skin like pins and needles.

He looks at Lucifer inquisitively, and the latter turns and angles himself so they're facing each other.

"I'm going to have to leave you in the dark until I come back, Sammy."

_No, no, no..._

There's a certain expression of sympathy on Lucifer's face. It's not an apology, not at all, and it's not empathic either, more so a compassionate objective understanding of the weight of what he just told him. And Sam's chest tightens, because he's looking, and looking, and looking, for any sign that this is some sort of sadistic joke and isn't really what he just heard, and is finding none.

"Why? I don't understand. What did I do?"

"You didn't do anything. I'm not punishing you."

"Then why, Lucifer, I don't..."

"Because I need to go find Michael and your body is weighing me down a ton."

Sam stares at him wildly, and he's trembling, all over. He clasps his hands together in an effort to control the shaking. He can't.

"Find Michael, in the dark? You can move in the dark?"

"On my own, not easily, but yes. Inside your body? Not possible."

Sam rises to his feet because the panic is making it fucking painful to stay still. Because he needs to move, needs to exercise that freedom he's being told will be taken away and cling to it. Because he can still remember exactly how being frozen in place screaming on the inside feels like.

He takes a few steps backwards, and then inches towards Lucifer again, parts his lips to say something and then says nothing at all. He turns away and buries his face in his palms, and he's running in circles and his head is a messy tangle of neurons burning up in union. He doesn't know what to do with himself.

"Lucifer, listen... I-- we have forever, right? Don't do it. Don't, because-- because Michael can find you... because, you don't have to and I don't think I can, Lucifer. I can't ."

"Calm down and speak clearly."

Sam tries, "Okay, uh, I'm telling you I don't think I can survive it. You know I won't survive it. I'm telling you, please, Lucifer, don't do this."

"You're going to survive it. I won't stay away long."

_Don't beg. Don't beg. Stop begging._

"How would you know? How would you know how long it'll take to find him? How would you find your way back to me? What if you can't? Huh? Please please..."

"It's happening, Sammy."

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and the tears welling there and burning hot stream down his cheeks in earnest. He presses all 10 finger pads against warm eye sockets hard, attempting to stop the spillage. He tries to breathe but there's a knot in his throat that he can't swallow past and his body is growing pale and cold and he's sobbing like a child.

_Don't cry. Don't cry. Stop crying._

"Come here."

Lucifer tells him, and when Sam turns to him, he's sitting on the edge of the bed and patting on the space next to him. Sam goes.

"Why are you looking for Michael?"

"I have my reasons. Sit."

Sam does. And Lucifer carefully leans closer, cups Sam's flushed and anguished face between two cold palms. It's the first time he touches him, excluding accidental brushes in passing, and Sam flinches at the contact but doesn't move further, doesn't make a sound.

"Sammy, listen to me. This cage is not designed for you. Your physical form, your body, is a foreign object the dark doesn't recognize. It's an extremely harsh environment; I understand that, and you're going to suffer; I'm sorry for that, but at the end of the day, you're a solid entity with a gravitational force. Are you following?"

"Yes."

"This means, if I don't stray too far, I can always find my way back to you."

"What if you don't, Lucifer? What if you fucking don't?"

"I will. Do you trust me?"

"No."

"That's okay. Let this be an exercise in trust for both of us."

And Sam is angry, seeing-red fucking furious. And he's terrified out of his mind, and he feels small and abandoned and needy and he can't think of anything else other than the infinite harrowing torment and the soul-crushing horror of the dark, and how, if Lucifer wills it, he can be left to rot there for the rest of eternity.

Lucifer pulls back, hands off. And Sam inhales deeply, tears still running free. He bites his lower lip and wipes his face with the back of his hand. There's fire in his chest that all demonstrated assurances can't seem to extinguish. And he hates this, hates it; it's downright disgusting how much he _needs_ , has been begging, the goddamn devil to continue possessing him because he's completely and utterly dependent on him to survive against a tyrannical force that could consume him in a heartbeat. The irony is nauseating. It's the cruelest fucking joke Fate has ever pulled on him in the god-forsaken misery that is his life.

"Sam?"

"Yes, Lucifer, okay. I get it. I don't exactly have a say in the matter either way, do I?"

"You don't. And while I ultimately prefer to send you there with some peace of mind to keep you sane and kicking, this isn't primarily why we're having this conversation."

Sam is just exhausted, too worn-out to think or guess or complain. He nods slowly, "Why are we?"

"When I come back for you, Sammy, you're likely to be disoriented, confused, a little out of it. I'll need you to remember one thing for me then. I'll need you to remember to let me back in. To say 'yes.' Do you understand, Sam?"

Sam chuckles. Just stares at him and chuckles. It sounds desperate and insane and it's the grimmest fucking sound to ever come out of his mouth. Lucifer looks at him curiously first, and then he smiles too. And Sam thinks the defeated acceptance on his face must be fucking delightful. There's a moment of shared acknowledgment where neither of them needs to state the obvious: it's laid bare before their very eyes, and Sam wonders whether, even though he'd won the war, he was always bound to lose himself over and over again.

"I understand."

"Good boy. Are you ready?"

Sam isn't. He'll never be. And he's the picture of pure terror if there was ever one. And in that particular instant, right as Lucifer raises his hand to snap him out of the room and into actual Hell, Sam sees a faint trace of amusement on Lucifer's face, and he reaches forward, frantically trying to grab on him, and there's this pleading panicked expression and his lips part to scream something and...

_Snap._

_________________________

It feels like a thousand years. A thousand years of terrible terrible pain that slowly tears away at his sanity, that crushes his sense of self, his ego, his personhood, his history, all of it. He's aware of every piece of him as it shatters and disintegrates. He's aware he's losing words, that entire linguistic structures are gone from memory. He's right there staring into the dark nothing as images of loved ones pale and fade away. He tries to remember names, and the ones he can remember he repeats to himself over and over. But they keep slipping. And he keeps slipping.

_John Mary Jessica Bobby Ellen Jo Castiel Dean..._

_John Mary Bobby Castiel Dean..._

_John Bobby Cas Dean..._

_Bobby... Cas..._

_Dean, Dea..._

And yet somehow, through it all, two ideas, concepts, convictions replay themselves in his head on a loop. They're the building blocks of his identity and he has nothing if he doesn't have them. Even when the individual words don't mean anything, even when it sounds like a riddle he can't solve. They remain.

_My name is Sam Winchester and I'm in Hell._

_Lucifer will come back for me and I'll say yes._

He feels flayed, skinned alive. He's always on cold freezing fire. His body never stops trying to break free, and there's no adapting to this, no riding it out. It's unrelenting, and his system is in a perpetual state of shock. He can't recall how it felt to breathe, or what colors mean, or if there was ever a sound other than the ringing in his ears.

He tries, he really does, to endure, to stay grounded, to hold onto the fundamentals and not let go. It takes him every ounce of will and perseverance to maintain a vague notion of a world that existed before and a world that exists during, why he is here, and what he's waiting for. And it's miserable, and the suffering is incomprehensible. And he'd rather die a hundred times slowly and painfully than be here a minute longer.

And then Lucifer does come, as he said he would. And Sam can't see him but he can hear a familiar voice floating in the damaged alleys of his brain. And it's a whisper, and it sounds like salvation, and it only says, "Sam." And he only says, "Yes."


	4. To Choose Your Poison

Recovery is slow and hideous. At first, it's the seizures. Sam's body convulses violently, he cracks his head open against the floor, he bites his tongue bloody. He's unresponsive and he doesn't know where he is. And then it's shock. Sam can't stand the light because it shoots straight into his cornea. He keeps his eyes screwed shut and he screams non-stop. He doesn't remember how to breathe so he's giving himself one panic attack after another. All sounds are too loud. Every touch stings and burns. He curls on himself in a corner and buries his face in the dark and quiet of his elbows. He knows exactly where he is, and he just can't bear the thought. And then it's depression. A deep and devastating sense of despair and misery. He weeps a lot. He feels mangled and eviscerated and his brain is a foggy sludge of trauma and disarray.

Lucifer lets him be for the most part, only checking on him occasionally. He hasn't said a word since, and Sam barely notices him at first, but then, as cognizance slowly creeps back, he's aware of the other presence in the room, and of what this presence can offer.

"Lucifer...?" He manages. It's the first coherent sound to part his lips since the obligatory silence of the dark and all the shrieking that followed.

"Welcome back, buddy."

"I _need..._ "

"Healing. Yes."

"Please."

"Sure. All you had to do was ask."

Lucifer crouches next to him and rolls up his shirt sleeves off his forearms. Sam would have found the display theatrical if he could entertain a single complex thought. But he can't. So he just stares at him with hopeful anticipation.

"Stay still."

Sam does. And Lucifer brushes a few strands of hair out of the way and then presses both palms flat against his temples. Angel grace flows through his skin and into his blood and it fills him up and it feels glorious. Sam can feel parts of him that were bruised and mutilated being glued back together, pathways in his mind being mended and rebuilt, memories that were lost to him flashing bright behind his eyelids. It's rejuvenating, and blissful serenity washes over him and he's warm and calm and it's fucking magic.

"Better?" Lucifer asks, pulling back slightly. He does look content himself, and Sam is so grateful he could cry.

"So much. Thank you!"

He sits up slowly, eyes wandering around the familiar room with a clearer, more grounded vision. He's not whole, not even close, can still feel the gravity of something dark and brutal trying to pull him in. But the phantom pain is gone, and the tremors in his legs are gone, and putting words together to form a full sentence is no longer a Sisyphean ordeal. There are spots in his memory that remain glaringly blank, and it's frustrating to even go there, but Sam can't complain. He is not a sobbing blubbering shell of a person consumed by agony and oblivion, so he won't complain.

"You found me." He tells Lucifer quietly, exhaustion still dripping out with every syllable. There is recognition and gratitude in the simple statement. And Sam has no desire or energy to analyze why the contempt he should be feeling for the devil is overshadowed by a general appreciation for him, for keeping his promise, for coming back, for saving him.

"I didn't venture too far, and you didn't stop praying."

"Uh, this is embarrassing."

"It's not. I'm proud of you, Sammy."

Sam wants to change the subject because this is a topic he doesn't want to address. His utter dependence and need for Lucifer is something he can justify out of necessity, but can't get himself to swallow.

"Did you find Michael?"

Lucifer's expression doesn't change, and he replies simply with a "No," and Sam is watching him intently, because it's plain as day there's a continuation to this answer that Lucifer is holding back. It's not impossible to guess it.

"But you're going to keep looking." It's not phrased as a question. And Sam can't conceal the escalating distress in his voice.

Lucifer blinks once. He looks a little irritated, impatient even, "Yes. But this is not something you should worry about right now."

Sam wants to tell him that he's not worried; he's petrified. That he doesn't give a single flying fuck about Michael or his fucking whereabouts, that it's not fair, it's not fair that he's the only one cashing the bill so that a fucking archangel can go find his fucking brother in the abstract hellhole they're trapped in together. He wants to, his chest is heaving with the words, but he doesn't say anything. Because Lucifer looks irritated and Sam feels like a fucking coward who is going to breathe, breathe, breathe, get a goddamn grip, before he starts throwing tantrums he's most definitely going to regret.

No, this is not a screaming match he could ever win, not when his only opponent is also judge and jury and could snap him right back there for the disrespect alone. And Sam's head reels, because he holds no cards and he has no leverage and he must find a way. He must find a way. And Sam thinks. He thinks like his very existence depends on it. 

______________________________

Sometimes Sam swears he could drown under the weight of his helplessness. It's an ugly constant presence. It's in the air and he can't escape it. It whispers things and it's always right.

_You're selfish..._

Because, yes, Sam, you're selfish. You're literally demanding someone, this someone being the devil is irrelevant, to forego their own quest, their brother-rescue or brother-murder or whatever the fuck, and stay right here, to protect you, to save you, to babysit you. To hold your hand and talk you to no-sleep because Hell is lonely, and Hell is awful, and you don't deserve this.

_You're entitled..._

And, yes, Sam, you're entitled, because you're so wrapped up in your hero's ballad you think you're owed the kindness you're getting. That for some reason, you should be spared all suffering, as if your sacrifice warrants a reward or a compensation. Because good things happen to good people, and you're good people, at least you're better people than most, and you don't belong here. You don't deserve this. 

_You irritate him..._

Oh, and, yes, Sam, you irritate him. You irritate fucking Satan. Because you're weak and you're demanding and you're a burden and you have nothing to offer. You're so self-absorbed you can't see past your own victimhood and sob story. Because he's been nothing but benevolent, at least reasonably so, and it drives you crazy because you wouldn't have been if you were him, and yet you keep asking for more. You believe it, with all your heart: you deserve more. 

_Worse, Sammy, you bore him..._

And you bore him, Sam, because, frankly, how can you even measure up? Every story you tell him he already knows because he's been inside your head. Every knowledge that fascinates you, he's witnessed it in the making. You wonder why he's seeking an equal instead of finding some sort of companionship in you as you do in him? You wonder why your company means so little, because you've always been sought after: Winchester, Boy-King of Hell, the one true vessel. You've spent most of your life being coddled and praised by an older brother who thought the sun shone out of your ass. You kept fucking up and he kept loving you through it. And now you're here and you think you're something. You think you deserve something.

_The older brother... you worshipped him. You can't even remember his name._

Sam grits his teeth. He wants to drive his own fist into his chest. Hard. He thinks his heart will break, and he just wants to punch it like a madman until it does everyone a favor and just stops. He remembers something Lucifer told him once in the balcony, about how he had no sense for self-preservation, and how, ironically, Hell has a habit of teaching you just that. He was smiling then, and Sam hated him with a passion that burnt, but he was right, wasn't he? Because Sam never feared death. It's "not dying" that he should have worried about. 

And Lucifer is right there, close by, and Sam feels fucked up and deranged. And he's not sure if he's been manipulated to hell and back (literally) or if any of this makes the slightest bit of sense, because now he wants to bargain with the devil, and it's not going to be pretty, but then again maybe he doesn't deserve pretty. Maybe this is exactly what he deserves. 

______________________________

"Lucifer..."

"I swear to dad, Sam, if you're going to beg and cry again--"

Sam shakes his head. He's been meticulously picking at one fingernail for the past few minutes, and now it's spilt down to the middle of the nail-bed and the raw pain is nothing he'd bat an eye at, "Torture me instead."

Lucifer raises an eyebrow. There's an amused smile slowly paving its way to the corner of his lips. And Sam is praying to whomever is listening, including the fallen angel right before him, that this is a good sign. 

"You're unhinged, Sammy, you're desperate. You don't know what you're asking."

"I very well might be. But please afford me this one last courtesy. You want to find your brother. I get that. And I want to buy time and keep you entertained until your brother finds you first. So torture me. Use me. I'm yours."

Ironically, Sam has never sounded so grounded and astute as he did blurting those words. There's focused determination on his face and Lucifer finds it so exquisitely endearing he can't stop grinning, "My sweet boy! You're offering me a toy, yourself in this case, to keep me busy and happy? If this isn't your typical brand of suicide, I'd have found it condescending." 

Sam avoids eye-contact, keeps his gaze fixed on the farthest corner of the room, "You can't do worse than what's already in the cards for me. This is not a challenge. It just is."

"No you're right, Sammy, and, yet, such fertile grounds for abuse."

"Knock yourself out."

In an instant, Lucifer is so close, too close. A flash of red sparking bright in his eyes and then melting down into cold blue. And his forearm is pressing Sam flat against the wall. And the proximity is so sudden and startling it sucks the oxygen out of Sam's lungs. It leaves him stunned in place and staring forward. It's easy to forget how blood-chillingly terrifying the devil can be when he wills it. Sam doesn't like to be reminded. 

"Tell me, cowboy: if I do want to torture you, why haven't I all along? I certainly didn't need permission."

Sam tries to catch enough air to answer the question, "I honestly don't know. Still, it's probably 3 times better if I'm asking for it."

"Hm."

"Do we have a deal?"

Lucifer purses his lips. He looks playful, exhilarated. Sam hasn't seen him that interested in anything since the first 'yes' back on Earth. 

"Beg."

"Uh, please, tortu--"

Elbow digs deeper, a lot deeper than should be possible, into Sam's ribcage, "Do better."

Sam huffs every word, face flushing red with the exertion, "Lucifer-- please, use me. Torture me. Please. It's for me. It's what-- what I want."

"See, I like this, Sammy. It's desperate, yes. But also brave and just the right amount of stupid. And, oh, so unapologetically you, solving a problem with another. I almost admire it."

Sam doesn't say anything for a few seconds. He thinks a little more pressure on his chest will break a rib, so he presses his lips together and keeps his eyes tight shut and just tries to concentrate on breathing and staying very very still. And part of him, oddly enough, is comforted by all of this. By the pain he can handle and the adversary he can at least reason with. It's familiar territory, and he has years of endurance under his belt. 

"Thank you. Are we starting right now?"

Lucifer chuckles lightly and pulls back a few inches. Sam breathes out.

"No. I'm not going to compete with dad's finest work when you're so fresh out of its throes. I'll let you be. Rest. Do whatever you do when I'm not here."

"I don't do anything of substance when you're not here."

The retort is blunt and straightforward and Lucifer didn't expect it. He stares at Sam for a second, watches him try to relax his stressed shoulders and refrain from touching his chest altogether. It's probably bruised blue, but he doesn't look that bothered by it.

"Are you saying you'd rather I stay?" 

And there's a certain excitability surfacing from tangled webs of tense cautious liberation. A particular barrier has been broken and it leaves Sam open and honest, and it's a strange thing to feel considering the circumstances and what he just walked himself into. Perhaps it's the power of choice, of agency, of grabbing the wheel for a stolen (or negotiated) moment and deciding where his fate should take him. It's a brief high, and Lucifer had said it but now Sam can feel it too. He feels brave, with just the right amount of stupid. 

"Of course I'd rather you stay."

Lucifer smiles to him. It lingers a little longer than it usually does, and then he heads for the door anyway.

"Can I ask you something before you go, Lucifer?"

"Ask away."

"What's my brother's name?"

"Next time, you earn it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! This is my first ever story in the Supernatural universe and I'm having a blast writing it. The final chapter is already outlined, but I'm considering adding another chapter to expand on Sam and Luci's new dynamic. If that's something you'd be interested in, please let me know. I usually tend to allude to dark themes (torture/non-con) rather than write the details, but I think I might also explore doing the detailed version if we'll go with the extra chapter. Either way, your kudos and comments (and bookmarks) make my day. Thank you!!


	5. This One Is Beyond Good and Evil

Next time doesn't come as promptly as Sam thought it would. He had just given the devil the green card to do whatever he wants with him, and he'd seen him so interested and eager he outright expected him to storm into the room any minute now with pliers and blades. That doesn't happen. And the initial wave of relief at avoiding a much worse fate starts to slowly subside, and fear sprouts in its stead. And Sam stares at the door a lot, first in anxious anticipation, and then just impatiently for the other shoe to drop and be done and over with.

Intermittently, he spends his time trying to puzzle the pieces together, to fill in the blanks left in his memory. Like, for example, how exactly did Ellen and her daughter die? He is positive they did, and there's a particular grief to the certainty. But he can't remember how or when he last saw them. Or, when he first met Jessica. He can recall their first kiss, but not how they met. And, was mom a blonde or a brunette? And why is it that he can see a crystal clear picture of his brother's face, but has not the slightest clue what he used to call him, except for the occasional "jerk"?

Salt and iron for ghosts, and you burn their bones or the object they're tethered to. Holy water and exorcism, or the demon blade if it's urgent, for the black-eyed motherfuckers. Dead-man's blood and beheading for vampires. But how did you kill a werewolf? And what the fuck is a wraith?

Ultimately, Sam doesn't make himself wait long. Nothing is more humbling than knocking the door and asking your torturer-to-be to come do the job already. But Sam does it anyway. And when Lucifer comes, there are no medieval tools of horror and mutilation on his person, just a plain notebook and a pencil.

________________________________

"We're playing Hangman, Sammy."

Lucifer tells him, climbing the bed to sit cross-legged in the middle, notebook in his lap, and just his usual neighborly demeanor. And Sam was standing the farthest away he could, because he's full of adrenaline and his nerves are on edge and he just didn't know what to expect. He sure as hell didn't expect this.

He draws closer to the bed then, tilting his head, baffled, "We're, uh, playing Hangman?"

Lucifer hums in the affirmative, hand already fiddling with the pencil on a clean new page. It takes him 5 seconds, and then he's shifting the notebook to face forward so Sam can see. The gallows is already doodled, along with 4 dashes on the bottom.

"Lucifer, are you fucking serious?"

"Deadly. Four letters, your brother's name. Vowels are a no-go on the first 3 turns. Tell me when you're ready."

Sam furrows his eyebrows, apprehensive. But Lucifer doesn't like to wait, so he licks his lower lip and mutters cautiously, "Okay, um, J."

"Tsk."

Lucifer scribbles the letter and crosses it, then he draws the head, and it's so sudden, so abrupt, but Sam's neck snaps to the side, and he can hear the sound of his cervical vertebra fracture, no; it's actively being crushed and mashed into dust, before the pain even registers. He drops to his knees on the floor, overwhelmed, howling. The pain shoots straight down to every limb. It tingles all over. Frantic hands reach up to try and hold his head in place. Because it's shaking too much and he can't keep it still and the slightest movement is absolute agony.

For a long minute Sam is entirely preoccupied with the violent throbbing spreading throughout his body. The game is forgotten, the end-goal of the game is forgotten, the deal is forgotten. He just wails and hyperventilates and Lucifer is silent. And then it all comes back to him and distracted distraught eyes fix on the man on the bed watching him placidly.

_You asked for this. Don't you dare complain._

Anxiety ripples in his heart. And Sam knows he's going to get the next letter wrong because he can't think straight. And knowing what comes next, he's trembling. He stutters the words, "Please just gi-give me a, uhh, minute."

"You already had two. Now, Sammy."

Sam screws his eyes shut, digs teeth into his lips. His jaw is clinched tight and he struggles to even whisper, bracing himself, "M..."

"Sorry, buddy."

Lucifer scribbles the letter, not looking the tiniest bit sorry, and crosses it out, then he draws the torso. And this time, it's not sudden. Because it's not rocket science and Sam has been tensing every muscle picturing his spine splitting in two. But knowing is miles from experiencing.

His back arches backwards unnaturally. He hears something crack at the middle. The pain is maddening, all consuming. It almost blinds him. He screams until he's out of breath and then he screams some more. It's shrill and discordant and it's fucking horrifying, and with it comes an urgency that is mindless and desperate.

_Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop._

"Lucifer, no more! No more, please make it fucking stop, no more! Please, god, I want to fucking pass out!"

And Sam's vision is cloudy with tears and he can see the blurry figure on the bed pull up and down to the floor, inching closer to him. Close enough he can feel the chill radiating off of his skin. He wants to grasp at him and plead. But he's shivering from head to toe and the little room is spinning.

Lucifer kneels next to him, notebook and pencil balanced between index and middle finger, and Sam is on his side on the floor, back arched at an an angle that shouldn't be humanly possible. He runs a hand through sweaty locks of hair, and his tone is soothing and calm, "Tell me why I'm doing this."

"Because-- because I asked... you to. Please."

"And you remember why you asked?"

"Y-yes."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No."

And Sam is bawling his eyes out and his ears are ringing, and he tries, holy hell does he try, to hold onto the knowledge that this is better; it's the worst thing that could happen in the moment, yes, but it's better.

"Good boy. Now give me another consonant."

"Uh-- I'll get it wrong. Fuck, please, no, let me guess a vowel! I'm going to get it wrong and I just can't."

"Sammy, I'm running out of patience."

"R-- No, no, L."

Sam just sees him shake his head, grabbing for the pencil again, and the reaction is not calculated. Just basic animal instinct. His hand rushes to grip on whatever it could reach, that being Lucifer's shirt, and he's crying out a "No wait!" and he's not strong enough really, not even close, because that same hand jolts back when the next appendage is added to the stick figure drawing and his arm snaps at the elbow, bending backwards until the bone is protruding. It's a gruesome bloody thing, and Sam would have spilled his guts out if he had anything in his stomach to count.

He should be dead really. Or at least paralyzed. He should faint or go numb. His brain should be blocking the pain signals because they're overrunning his system, and he's a mass of exposed nerves choking on its own tongue. But these are small mercies that don't come with the menu. And Sam is blubbering incoherent pleas and his vocal chords can barely keep up and he doesn't want to be in his body anymore.

Lucifer waits until the screeching dies down some, and then he takes Sam's head in his lap. And the transition shouldn't be this gentle or painless, but it is. Sam is too crippled with exhaustion and turmoil to think it over.

"Do you still want your brother's name?"

"I don't, Lucifer, I don't. I want to stop playing. Can we please stop playing?"

"Tell me how much you don't care."

"There isn't, uh, there isn't a bone in my body that--that gives a fuck. I just want the pain to stop."

"Ouch. Harsh _and_ poetic. You can guess vowels now."

Sam doesn't argue, "A."

"Third letter. There you go, Sammy. Progress."

Sam just wants it all over. Evry emotional investment in the outcome has seeped out of him, and what is left is just the ordeal. The suffering and the threat of more suffering. It's the most taxing puzzle he's ever had to solve. And he thinks of it as one. He has all the motivation in the world. A 4-letter boy name with A on third position. J and M and L crossed out. There's likely another vowel since Lucifer kept the vowels off the board that long. So, I or E. Less likely O or Y. He goes with E, because it's the most common letter in the language, and his family-anything better fit in at least one single goddamned statistic.

Lucifer gives him an encouraging nod, "Yep, second position. Almost there."

A 4-letter boy name with E on second position and A on third. The flow of the sound would suggest the last letter is N, unless his brother has a weird fucking name and he's screwed. But assuming not, it's either Sean or Dean, and Sam goes with alphabetical order.

"Can I guess the full name now?"

"Be my guest."

"Dean?"

"Hallelujah."

Sam exhales the air he's been holding. He's so relieved he bursts down in tears. He's a pliant malleable pile of flesh and damaged bones sprawled across the devil's legs and he just wants to lie right here and be healed into a functional anatomy, until his joints point where they should and his universe stops palpitating. No other thoughts cross his mind. Nothing else matters.

Lucifer ruffles his hair heartily, indulgent and merry, and the gesture is as patronizing as they come, but Sam is beyond caring, "Raise your hand if you've been personally traumatized by a 5th grade paper and pencil guessing game?"

____________________________

Lucifer never comes uninvited. Sam learns to stop expecting otherwise and regard this a kindness and appreciate it. Oddly so, making peace with this reality allows Sam to drop the pretence and just directly ask for his presence (or attention) when he needs it, however that might come. He no longer waits for the ferocious pangs of loneliness to overcome him. The door and the company are forever a few feet and a knock away.

He always gives himself some time to rest first, at least emotionally and mentally, since Lucifer always heals the physical damage before he leaves. He takes his sweet time just contemplating his situation, replaying recent conversations, analyzing every development. The torture is more often than not awful. And Sam is consistently terrified of it because it transcends body horror and strategically pokes red hot needles at his brain, his fears, his doubts, his phobias, and everything that has ever meant anything to him. But he only ever regrets the deal when he's screaming himself hoarse for mercy. When he's not, he can see it: the entire routine is grounding. He is 10 times more focused, clear-headed, eloquent after the regular torture session and the subsequent healing and they always just sit and talk then.

And Sam is fully aware of how insane this is. That the violent fluctuations in his psyche, the rollercoaster of extremes that he experiences when Lucifer is in the room and when he isn't, may have compromised him ages ago. Perhaps his judgment has been fucked all the way to hell: he's captor-bonding, coping, conditioned, whatever an outside observer might call it. But a lot of things make sense now and at least he doesn't want to die every second of every day. At least he's shedding the guilt and the pride and he's raw and real and communication flaws nice and smooth and the conversations he has with the devil are the best he's ever had.

"No, Sammy, it's not that. I don't want forgiveness or redemption from him. Haven't for eons. I loved him the way you love a master and it sickens me to think of it now. It sickens me that the rest of you can't see through the charade that is your existence. Because he and I? We're just the same. He's just stronger and his PR team are a few centuries ahead."

"What I don't understand, Lucifer, is why you're so adamant to equate yourself to a god you believe is evil, and then argue that you, yourself, are not."

"I'm not equating myself to him. I'm equating him to me. Dad's evil, I'm evil, sure. Evil is arbitrary. You attach the concept to a perpetrator, or heedlessly nullify it, based on reputation and status alone. He murders millions in a flood for not being worshipful enough and it's divine justice. A state leader crushes the enemy in a war over lands and it's patriotism. You, a nobody, snap a lamb's neck and eat it and it's family dinner. To the drowned millions, to the crushed army, to the lamb, it's evil incarnate."

"You're saying superior power is fundamentally evil and self-serving. And you may be right, but then what? Where do we go from here? A world without defined standards for morality, a code that we try to adhere to to cohabitate, wouldn't survive a day."

"Nor should it. What I'm saying, Sammy, is, morality is irrelevant. He has none. Power redefines ethics every day and you don't bat an eye. He sets a standard for us and sets himself above it. He assigned a default goodness to his very being and his actions are judged accordingly by association. This, for you, is a corrupt system that should make your blood boil. For me? it's a joke that ran its course several millennia past."

"So what do you suggest? Wipe the slate clean and start over? Overthrow the king and take the throne? How would you be a better god?"

"I wouldn't be. There is no better to strive towards. The system is flawed by design. Been there, done that. What I didn't do is pretend that it's 'good,' that it's 'fair.' And, Sam, you don't get it. The future of humans? I couldn't care less. Dad probably doesn't either, not beyond the value they provide for entertainment. But he likes to buy into his own bullshit and he picks you, this trivial frivolous pastime project, over me?"

"Lucifer, you wanted God to annihilate humankind and go find another hobby because you're jealous, is that it?"

"I wanted _my father_ to give away the feral cat that gives me allergies. Does that sound more relatable?"

Sam finally starts giggling, and it's a genuine carefree thing, "It does, actually, yes."

And not that a compare-and-contrast would be wise, but Sam remembers all too well the aching need for his own father to acknowledge him, to prioritize him, to give up his obsession for revenge, maybe just this Christmas, to stay home with his boys and just prove it, for once, beyond empty words, that they mattered. And Sam remembers the alienation and the rejection and the estrangement every time he attempted to stray. Oh and how can he forget? His father on his death bed, telling Dean to kill his little brother, if it comes down to it, if he goes darkside, because he was bound and destined to go darkside, wasn't he? 

At the end of the day, maybe Sam was loved and maybe he truly mattered, but Dad had his demons, and he chose them above all else, and Sam couldn't compete if he tried. It's strange the kind of love he holds for his father, intrinsic and almost devoid of reason. It runs in his veins alongside a tinge of resentment and a bucket-worth of accompanying guilt. 

Lucifer interrupts the thought, "I don't think I heard you giggle before."

"Yeah, sorry, your villain origin story strikes a chord."

Lucifer smiles almost softly, at the choice of words or because he _gets it_ , Sam is not sure, and then they're silent for a few seconds. And an aura of quiet and tranquility envelops the two of them. Sometimes, more so lately, Sam glances at the devil and wonders if he was ever given a chance to be anything but a monster. It's not sympathy, not really, and it's not a justification. Just an objective understanding of cause and effect. 

"Sammy."

"Yes? Are you going to go now?"

"No, I think I'm going to fuck you now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added an extra chapter before the final one for the exclusive purpose of writing more Tortured!Sam and Nihilist!Lucifer! Thank you for reading! <3


	6. The Devil and the Details

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for heavy Rape/Non-Con. I'm SORRY for everything.

In every conceivable sense of the word, Sam was already Lucifer's bitch. It's especially transparent in the little details: the sorrys and the thank yous and the pleases uttered one time too many beyond the requirements of common courtesy. Or the slumped shoulders and the downcast gazes, when he feels small and just wants to be smaller, to not offend, or antagonize, or confront. Or how his first instinct when he panics is to keep the fight or flight response in check, because Lucifer doesn't respond kindly to either, to claw nails at his own thighs and pinch at sensitive flesh with savage abandon, so that maybe then the shaking limbs won't act on the urge to flee, and so that maybe then he won't have to tip-toe on hot coal for 3 hours again until he relearns the value of standing stock-fucking-still when he's expected to.

Now Sam doesn't know this. What he knows is minimizing worst case scenarios and picking his battles, even when he can barely now, if at all, recall the last battle he didn't forfeit on the first round. What he knows is meek negotiations and surviving day to day and that when the devil tells him he's going to fuck him now, he better not counter with a straight "No."

"Why-- uh, why now? You never so much as looked at me like that. You barely ever touch me. You don't want to do this, Lucifer."

Reasoning with him never works. This, too, Sam knows, but it's practically harmless. Lucifer seems to enjoy the effort and he always indulges the questions.

"Oh I don't? I mean, technically, I'm pure celestial energy and I have no carnal needs. Sure. But don't sell yourself short, Sam. I always want to be inside you. It's our whole dynamic, isn't it?"

And Sam recognizes this face, this expression, when Lucifer speaks of something to come not as a suggestion, or a possibility, or a proposition, but fact. It's final and it's happening. And it's not like the certainty is unjustified. It's not like Sam is not the fucking coward he is, too anxious, too terrified to even verbalize the protest. It's not like all he can do is hyperventilate and quiver and hate this, hate himself for allowing the mere prospect, and think this is still _better, better, better,_ and he basically begged for it.

To be fair, when he so blatantly told Lucifer "I'm yours," he didn't really factor this in. When he was tortured to the edge of insanity and back, he didn't really factor this in. When he was stripped down to his boxers on occasion, and had to watch his exposed skin tear and open and burn, he didn't really factor this in. How could he when every touch up to a few minutes ago was either to soothe or patronize or inflict pain? Never sexual. Never the slightest hint of this being an option. Sam is so blindsided he's not really registering it yet. Because if he believes, if the denial dissipates, then he's left with nothing but the suffocating reality of his helplessness. And sometimes, this time more than ever, it's too fucking much to bear.

"I don't, Lucifer, uh... I don't--"

"You don't what, Sammy? You don't _want_ this? Use your words."

But Sam has none. What he has is a vicious ache in the chest and a tight knot in his stomach and the seething need, boiling under his skin, to get the fuck away. And yet he's frozen in place by terror and consequences he knows all too well, and he's cornered and trapped and there's nowhere to go. His eyes water, and he's flushed with a shame that overwhelms him. He's trembling with it. And he should say no. He should say no. He should say no. He can't.

Lucifer regards him neutrally for a moment longer, and then he just mutters an "Oh well," and stands up, and brutal primal panic sets in. Sam presses his back against the wall, wants to melt into it and fucking disappear, and he's crying out, "No wait, wait, wait!"

Lucifer takes a few steps away, hands clasped behind his back, and there's a small placid smile that lingers, and it's not malicious, only assured, "I didn't touch you, buddy. And I'm not going to hold you down. You have exactly 10 seconds to say no. And, cross my heart, I won't hurt you for it. But you're going to use your tongue to make some big boy choices right this instant or you're going to use it on my cock. Your time starts now."

And Sam doesn't say anything. Because the big boy choices are a ship that sailed and he's years beyond the illusion there's any part of him that can be saved. Ten seconds of just hearing himself breathe, loud and obnoxious, and then...

"Real terrific, Sammy. Now take your clothes off and kneel by the bed."

Sam pulls up to do just that. There's a certain resignation to his slow heavy movements and the way his pupils dart from one spot on the floor to another, never lifting up, wouldn't dare, wouldn't be able to take it. Would rather scratch his eyes out.

Lucifer waits until he's done and then he goes to him. Hand curling in a head full of hair, rolling some around his fingers and tugging, and he's too playful, too casual, too pleased; it's not fair. He twists his wrist and Sam is forced to look up. And there's one single tear sliding down a crimson cheek.

"Come on, Sammy, don't cry. If you cry, then this is rape. Is this rape?"

Sam pinches at his naked thigh until it hurts, "N-no."

"What is it then?"

"It's-- you're using me like I asked you to."

"Ask me again."

He's too cold, too calm, too composed, larger than life. Sam is no match for this, not here, not when there's nowhere else, no one else, not when it's all he has; it's not fair.

"Please use me, Lucifer. I'm yours."

"Now try to be more specific."

"Please-- just please fuck me."

"Tsk, Sammy, darling, I don't buy it."

_____________________________

Lucifer doesn't actually fuck him that day. Which, in every plane of existence in every observable universe, should be a relief and a blessing. But Sam knows better. Because Sam knows the devil, and he knows it, in his heart of hearts, that the point here isn't to penetrate him. The point is humiliation. And Lucifer has no sexual appetite to appease or succumb to, so he gets to drag it on as long as he pleases. If it's not slow and agonizing and absolutely soul crushing, it's not worth his time.

So Lucifer doesn't fuck him, not until he's begged for it a thousand times over. Not until he's stretched himself open with his own fingers and taken every position and said "please" in every variation and genuinely meant it. Not until he's stroked himself raw and made a show of it, came all over himself and then scooped it all up and licked his hands clean. Not until he's knocked the door 3 more times and grovelled for any sort of attention that wasn't rooted in debasement, pleaded for the torture and the conversations back, to _please please please fuck me but please please please treat me like a person again._

It's perhaps weeks of this. Of Lucifer fully dressed, never laying a hand on him, just watching, asking questions, giving orders, directing a play. And Sam's auditioning for the role of someone actually worthy of being fucked, and he needs to give the performance of his life, because as it is now, Lucifer just doesn't buy it.

"I don't know, Sam. The whole gloom on your face. Still kinda looks a little rape-y to me, don't you think? Maybe if you smile?"

Sam forces a smile. Cheek to cheek. He's the jolliest motherfucker in Hell, and tries again, "I want to suck your cock. I want to taste you. Please, Lucifer, I swear to your father. I swear to you. I want it. I've never wanted anything more. Please."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yes. Go for it."

Sam can't believe it. And the intense rush that comes with the simple permission is dizzying. He scrambles on hands and knees and inches closer to position himself between Lucifer's legs. He fumbles with the zipper anxiously, impatient, and when that is finally open, he wraps trembling fingers around a penis that isn't his, for the first time in his life, and then he shoves it straight between his lips.

He does a really bad job at it. Which, to Lucifer, is expected and rather adorable. But Sam puts his all in it. Tongue, hands, breathing through his nose, trying to swallow past his gag reflex, rivers of tears, dry heaving, the whole shebang. He's attentive and dedicated and he endures, so much. Lucifer ends up fucking his throat until he begs for it in his ass. So he gets it in the ass until he begs for it in his mouth again, and on and on it goes. For hours. Because Lucifer doesn't _need_ to cum and this will last as long as there's a pinch of dignity that hasn't been squashed and stepped on yet.

And not that it's not intentional, because it very much is. It's not meant to be enjoyable, or stimulating, or intimate. It's meant to ruin him and Lucifer never pretends otherwise, but, god, does he just love how willing and desperate Sam is to tell him everything he wants to hear, no matter how ridiculous, how nonsensical, it might be. He'll say anything. Because to Sam, this has been the longest torture session in the history of time and it's finally nearing its end and he's aching for the conversation and the kindness that come after. He won't fuck it up now. He'll take the damage and soak in the degradation and say thank you. He won't fuck it up now.

When it's finally over, and Sam has effectively lapped the resulting cum off the floor. When he's sore and broken and hurting all over, open and dissected and torn apart in more ways than one. When the weight of what he just went through hits him, and the disgust turns his stomach and the utter defilement seeps into his very being and swallows him whole, there's one thing left for Lucifer to take. And Lucifer wants to take it all.

"Tell me you love me."

Sam is burning with repugnance, and he doesn't hesitate for a second.

"I love you. I love you. I love you."

___________________________

Things do settle back into a new normal, if normal can be even remotely attributed to any of this. Sam knocks the door often, and Lucifer always comes. He tortures him or he fucks him or he just sits and talks, sometimes a buffet of all three. Sam takes it all in stride. He's devastated, sure; it's all over his eyes and the way he carries himself, but he can still hold his own in conversation. He has also developed a healthy understanding of when he should be the obedient subservient toy that strives to please and entertain the devil, and when he should be Sam Winchester, a fallen angel's roommate, past foe, and present sort-of friend. He balances the two quite admirably, and Lucifer always commends it.

Once, in a serene quiet moment after a pleasant conversation, Lucifer caresses his face and tells him slowly, "You're strong and adaptable, Sammy. I respect the hell out of you. I'm not going to break you. I'll push, yes, because this is who I am and this is who you are. But I'm not going to break you. I promise."

And his tone was so tender, so sincere, it tugs at Sam's heartstrings and overwhelms him. He cries openly into his pillow after Lucifer leaves. And he smiles a lot the following days. The words keep him warm and he carries them with him. It's the kindest thing Lucifer has ever done for him. Kinder than the company he offers almost unconditionally, kinder than giving up looking for Michael, kinder, even, than protecting him from the dark.

And Sam thinks of Lilith a lot lately. The first human soul at the receiving end of Lucifer's special attention, bent and twisted into something other, destroyed and rebuilt in his image. And Lucifer hadn't fallen yet then, wasn't cast away, wasn't ostracized. Just a disappointed half-god with too much power on his hands, smashing his father's toys out of spite. And yet she loved him, worshiped the ground he walked on, happily perished for him. He wonders if she could see it, if she could pinpoint the exact second he started crawling under her skin. He wonders if Lucifer regards her with the slightest bit of fondness, or if his disdain for his demon children extends to her too. And it's terrifying, a horror story in its own right, that this could happen to someone. That, if he's not careful, vigilant, hyperaware, it could happen to him too. It was once unfathomable; now it's just heartbreaking.

___________________________

It's a regular unidentifiable day in Hell. Sam is alone in his room making vampire stakes out of broken chairs. It's not really a weapon, and he just needs something to do with his hands, so Lucifer has been letting him play. It's one of several small things that improve as time goes by. Another small improvement is the notebook with the Hangman drawing on the first page. Lucifer gave it to him a while back along with a pencil. So now he can write, journal, doodle, do long division, make paper airplanes. The sky is the limit.

It hasn't been long since the last time he saw him and he already misses him. This is something he doesn't mind plainly admitting to himself anymore. He'd been struggling with the terminology before, yes. But how is craving someone's company different from missing them? It's just semantics, and Sam is through with the futility of lying to himself, or to someone who can see right through him. He's going to wait just a tad bit longer before he knocks the door. He wants to keep his neediness to a minimum; plus, he still has a broken ankle that Lucifer intentionally forgot to heal after the last session. So maybe he should give it a couple more (vaguely estimated) days.

The stake is almost done now. He considers going to the balcony and stabbing at the endless white outside. He knows nothing will come out of this but it's a curious thing to try. He moves to pull himself up, minding the ankle, and then it all goes dark.

Not just absence of light. Absence of everything. the ever-familiar heaviness suddenly crushes him. He's not breathing. He's not seeing. He's not hearing. He's not moving. He's burning cold.

_The dark..._

Sam is insane with panic. It's animalistic, merciless; it strips him of reason. The claustrophobia rears its ugly head and dominates every mental capacity and something inside of him is kicking and punching, hysterical, and...

And then it's light again. He's back in the room. The same spot he was just in. This time he pulls himself up with urgency and terror that render his ankle pain obsolete. He's rushing towards the door, but before he reaches it, it opens. Lucifer comes in almost running. He looks anxious. Sam has never seen him anxious before.

And Sam is screaming, "Lucifer, no, please. We had a deal. We had a deal. I did everyth--"

"Shut the fuck up, Sam! It's not me. Liste--"

Dark again. Heavy. Cold. Burns. Paralysis. Just a moment, and then light again.

Sam is looking around him like he's demented. He's shaking violently. And Lucifer is trying to say something, but Sam can't comprehend the words. He's terrified out of his wits and language doesn't mean anything to him.

Lucifer is sprinting towards him and Sam tries to meet him half-way but his ankle fails him. He sinks to his knees. The distress on his face is astronomical.

"Sam... Listen. Focus..."

He tries. Lucifer is kneeling right before him and Sam grips on him, fists curled around the fabric of his shirt and pulling, and he's holding onto him like he's drowning.

"What's happening? Tell me what's happening? Please don't-- don't do this."

"Not doing squat. Something is pulling on your body. Not me. Fucking listen. Are you listening?"

Lucifer's hands are on him too, gripping on his shirt too. And then it's dark again. Sam is going to have a heart attack. His heart is leaping out of his chest.

Light again.

"Lucifer!"

"Sam. Focus. I'm anchored to you. Are you listening? I need you to focus on me. If you drift, I can't get you. Do you understand?"

"I'm trying! God, I'm trying."

"Focus. On. Me. Look at me. Don't you dare blink!"

"What's happening?"

"Something is pulling your body away. Don't fucking blink!"

"Don't let me go there. Please don't let me go the--"

Dark again. Split of a second. Light again. Sam is going to have an epileptic seizure. His brain is blacking out.

He wraps both arms around Lucifer's torso and he sobs onto his chest. And Something is pulling on him. He can almost feel it on his body, his real body, his body in the dark. It's powerful. He resists it. With all his might he resists it.

Lucifer is whispering into his hair, urgent, imperative, "I got you, Sammy, I got you. Just focus on me. Just stay with me. I got you."

Nails sink into Lucifer's back. He's holding onto him so tight, wants to choke the life out of him, choke the life out of himself, murder-suicide them both into oblivion. The panic is crippling, but he doesn't let go.

And then it's gone. The pull is gone. The brief phantom feeling of his body in the dark is gone. The light settles. Sam doesn't let go.

"I got you." Lucifer repeats it. This time it's not reassurance. It's fact. Sam can tell the difference, but he doesn't let go.

There are hands on his head now, cupping it, lifting it up. Sam's eyes travel up to look at him. Lucifer's relieved. He looks happy. He looks proud. Sam's heart flutters.

"Lucifer... Wh-what was that?"

A kiss is planted on his forehead. It's almost affectionate.

"I'll tell you later, Sammy. For now, you calm down. We're good. I got you."

__________________________

It's months, years, decades later, no way to tell really. They're standing in the balcony, leaning against the railing, barely an inch between their shoulders. The horizon before them extends endlessly. A green valley. Warm sun that never sets. Birds flying around in a loop. Another screensaver, but this one is beautiful, and they can feel the breeze.

"Lucifer."

"Hm?"

"Remember that, um, day, when something pulled on my body and almost separated us?"

"What about it?"

"Do you think, uh, because I've been wondering. Do you think it was someone from outside? From before?"

"It was your angel friend. Castiel."

Sam turns to him. It's ridiculous, and he's sniggering, "Cas is dead. You killed him."

"My guess is as good as yours, buddy."

Sam just looks at him for a few seconds. Lucifer is still staring into the horizon blankly. The snicker dies down as something clicks. A muscle below his cheekbone twitches.

"Wait, so... You're saying Cas was here? Doing what? Trying to pull me out of the cage?"

"He did pull you out of the cage. At least in the flesh."

"But not my soul..."

"No, Sammy, your soul clung onto Hell and didn't let go."

Sam is chuckling now. It should be bitter. But it's not really. He's shaking his head. Incredulous. It's hilarious. He can't stop laughing.

"No no, Lucifer, answer me this. Did you, um... Did you always know? Did you know what was happening?"

"Yes."

"Did you know someone will come?"

"At some point, yes. Your physical body has gravitational force. Easy to find."

_He can't stop laughing._

"But not my soul..."

"Not your soul."

"Did you ever actually want to find Michael?"

"I found Michael on day one. We keep our distance."

"But it's something to hold over my head, something to get me where you want me. Right."

Lucifer's lips curl into something akin to a smile. And it's not victorious, it's not malevolent, it's not like he just pulled the longest con by biblical standards, since the dawn of man, with outstanding ground-shattering success. He looks just that tad bit entertained. And dark eyes, flickering with a hint of red and danger, shift to scan the man standing next to him, unfolding before him, cracking. He doesn't answer the last one. He doesn't need to. And Sam never asks why. He doesn't need to. He can't seem to stop laughing.

"Are you going to break all your chairs now, Sammy?"

Lucifer had fixed the chairs some time ago. Or perhaps he made new ones, whichever was faster when you can think things into existence. They're a lot better for it too. Sam had recently repainted the room and was planning on getting to the chairs eventually. He wouldn't have the heart to break them. They deserve better.

He leans back against the railing. And he breathes. Through the tightness in his chest, he breathes. Through pressed lips and the bile at the back of his throat, he breathes. And the weather is lovely today. The weather is lovely every day in Hell lately. And what Lucifer is really asking here is, _do you wanna go back to square one again now, partner?_ And, no, he doesn't. One day, a century or a millennium from now, Sam is going to rip the devil's heart out with his own hands. When he least expects it, when he's an inch away from winning, when it'll hurt most. But not today. Today he'll just enjoy the breeze. 

"No, Lucifer. We're good. I got you." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of all 6 chapters (except for the final part) take place in the short period Sam's body was still in Hell. It's never mentioned in the show how long, or why Cas fails to bring his soul back too. I'm assuming it was at least a week in Earth time, which is around 2.5 years in Hell. 
> 
> Oh, and I watched this a lot during writing and editing this chapter. Check it out: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ekDxHhZtSoo It's beautiful. 
> 
> I had an absolute blast writing this. I had an absolute blast watching the show and writing a story in its universe. This whole thing makes me a little emotional, haha. But there you go. It's done. Thank you SO much for reading and for any and every sort of feedback! And if you have thoughts or criticism to share, I'll appreciate it forever. Thank you! <3
> 
> (There's more of this universe in [Pathological](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24328363) if you're interested!)


End file.
